Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

Carter had to smile.

  “I’m glad to hear it. All right, let’s focus from now on. Test your guns once we clear the coast.”

  A few minutes later, Flynn traversed the nose turret left and right and fired the guns. Carter felt more vibrations as Todd and Murphy loosed off some rounds from their turrets in the rear.

  Not long after that they encountered dense banks of cloud that went up to eight and nine thousand feet. They climbed hard to keep clear of that. With so many aircraft in the air tonight, there was no way Carter was groping his way through thick clouds.

  On such a clear night, with white clouds below, Carter could see a lot of aircraft around them. To starboard were a few Hampdens. A number of Lancasters were ahead both above and below. Ridiculous as it sounded, Carter felt a little hemmed in and he asked Todd to shout out if anyone was behind them. The Australian craned his neck, looking everywhere to make sure there were no hidden surprises.

  It was a short hop across the Channel and they passed over the Haringvliet, south of Rotterdam a little north of track. From here, it was a straight run to Cologne. The cloud started to thin out, revealing the land below.

  At fifteen thousand feet, the air was crystal clear. Carter sucked down on the oxygen and he grimaced at the rubbery taste he was getting in his mouth. He mimed drinking from a cup to Byron and the Flight Engineer nodded. He poured a cup of tea from the flask in his bag and handed it to Carter. His pilot nodded his thanks and sipped slowly. He swilled it around his mouth, letting the heat penetrate, washing his tongue.

  He did an R/T check to make sure everyone was still awake. They responded quickly.

  “Check your hoses,” he warned. “Run your hand up and down the hose to make sure there’s no buildup in ice crystals.”

  Apart from the occasional call from Todd or Murphy as a bomber strayed near them, it was quiet in the Lanc as everyone focused on their tasks. Flynn called out a sighting as they passed Eindhoven and Woods updated his chart. They were still a little north of track and he gave Carter a correction.

  As intended, the German nightfighter defences were overwhelmed. Only twenty five fighters were sent up to meet the intruding force. Many sat on the ground awaiting scramble orders that never came.

  The bombers didn’t get away entirely scot free. They passed a few burning pyres on the ground along their route, testament to the lethality of the enemies defences when they caught the unwary.

  The starboard outer started running rough. Power was down and Byron thought about the mag drop they’d had before take off. He tried juggling the throttles, trying to find a setting the engine was comfortable with. The fuselage vibrated as the power continued to surge and then fall back.

  They could see the glow from all the fires over fifty miles away. Carter called Woods and Vos up to the cockpit to take a look. The Belgian looked on with cruel pleasure. Maybe with a few more raids like this the war would end.

  “My god,” said Woods. He’d not seen anything like this before. The sky was dotted by little pricks of light as flak detonated above the city. One glimpse was enough for him and he went back to his station.

  Flynn left the front turret and got ready in the nose. He settled himself on the padding and checked his selector switches. He’d heard the story about one bomb aimer who had come back to Amber Hill with a full load because he forgot to set his bomb selector switches properly. When he’d pressed the release, nothing had actually fallen out of the aircraft. Flynn wasn’t going to make that mistake.

  A few minutes later, the starboard outer went into its death throes. The oil temperatures shot up and it was clearly on borrowed time.

  “Sorry, skipper, we’re going to have to shut it down.”

  “Okay. Pilot to crew, we’re going to feather the starboard outer. Nothing to worry about,” he told them, keeping his voice businesslike. They cut the fuel, closed the throttle and feathered the engine. The needle blade propellers rotated into the airflow and stopped spinning.

  “Feathered!” Byron announced. Carter edged the remaining throttles forward slightly to compensate for the dead engine and fed in some trim to keep the nose straight.

  On the final run in to the city there was very little cloud. The forecast that the cloud would disperse south had been bang on and they had an unobstructed view of the destruction below them. Coming in from the north west; their cockpit was bathed in orange light from the hundreds of fires all over the place.

  Outside the city the Germans had lit a number of dummy fires trying to draw the main force off. It was a common tactic and on one of their normal raids, it might have worked. Tonight, the raid was just too big, everyone ignored them and went straight in.

  On the ground, it seemed like the raid went on and on, with no respite, no let up to give them a chance to organise. The air raid sirens wailed, their strident dirge the cry of a wounded animal, writhing in pain.

  Cookies rained down, the blast of the big bombs blowing off the roofs of buildings. The incendiaries burned the contents. Whole rows of streets were put to the torch and there was little the firemen could do. Well trained from previous raids, they knew that this would go on for hours, but they always managed to get to the fires and put them out before they could take hold. This time, the fires were everywhere.

  As each successive wave crossed over the city, bombs rained down in different districts. The first wave had bombed the centre of Cologne to get things started. The aiming point for the second wave was one mile north, the third, one mile to the south. Roads were blocked by rubble. Gas mains fractured and added to the conflagrations.

  “Bomb doors open!” said Flynn. This was terrific. There was none of the usual haze or cloud to make things difficult. He didn’t bother setting for wind tonight. It was a big city and there were plenty of things to hit.

  Ahead of them, a Lancaster staggered right, blown bodily sideways by a flak burst. A bright yellow streak trailed back on the port side, then it lurched as the wing folded and it went straight down. Two white bundles fell away from it and then it was out of sight.

  Carter gripped the yoke hard, his jaw grinding. The Lady bounced on a pocket of hot air and he wrestled to keep her level. He looked around, slightly confused. Every briefing and report said Cologne was crawling with over four hundred flak guns. Searchlights weaved left and right but their was little flak. For a moment, he wondered if they had run out of ammunition.

  The response to that thought was a burst of flak off to port, a few hundred yards away. Carter checked his altimeter. They were at thirteen thousand feet, well above the range of all the light flak. He eased back on the yoke slightly and took it up another five hundred feet.

  “Keep an eye out for fighters,” he warned. “They could be hunting over the city.”

  “Roger, skipper.”

  Todd span his turret left and right, scanning the sky. In the mid upper, Murphy did slow circles, flinching when some shrapnel pinged off his turret. There was a stab of blue above him and he saw a Lancaster sliding into position almost directly overhead.

  “We’re under another Lanc, boss.”

  Carter paled. The last thing they needed was copping a packet from a stray bomb crashing through the fuselage. He flat turned to the right ten degrees off track to put a bit of distance between him and the other bomber.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Carter ordered. “Left. Left,” Flynn’s voice droned. He’d spotted a long straight boulevard on the south side running roughly south east to north west. That would do perfectly. Beyond that boulevard was a big area of densely packed tenement buildings. He put the crosshairs on that. Flak exploded in front of them and the Lancaster jumped up, dropped and Flynn’s stomach lurched. He clung on tightly.

  “Steady. Steady. Ten seconds.”

  Carter found himself leaning forward in his seat. They were over the city. This was not one of those occasions where Flynn needed to be precise. Go! Go! Go!

  “Five seconds.” Flynn counted down and hit the release. “Bombs away!”


  The cookie released; a big tumbling dustbin. Incendiaries fell around it. Flynn closed the bomb doors.

  Carter turned away to the south. He let the speed build up, keeping a firm grip of the controls. As they peeled off, the cockpit lit up a bright white as a searchlight passed over them. The light dazzled him, destroying his night vision. Seeing spots, he hauled back on the yoke, translating the speed built up in the dive into a climb to try and throw off the searchlight. It stayed locked on them, like a Bulldog with its teeth wrapped around your leg.

  The flak came up, a box barrage the likes of which Carter had never seen. The explosion when it came hit him like a hammer and everything went dark and there was a roaring in his ears.

  60 - Crucible

  Time slowed down and his brain felt like treacle. Everything around him was shaking. His hands were being shaken and the vibrations went up his arms. It was dark and Carter screamed, convinced he’d been blinded. He shouted for Byron to help him but he heard nothing. Something hit his shoulder and his head flopped about like a rag doll. He flailed his arm to get it to stop. At least he thought he did, he wasn’t sure.

  His vision came back in stages. It started in the centre as if he was looking down a telescope from far away. Gradually the dark receded and he became aware of Byrons face looming over him; he was fighting him for the controls. Glacially slow, Carter looked down. His left hand was on the yoke, his right was in his lap. That wasn’t right.

  They were diving. They were diving! Everything snapped back into focus in a rush, sharp and crystal clear. He snatched at the yoke and it flopped around. The rudder pedals were soft. They were still descending. He centred the yoke and tried again and he found if he moved it more slowly, then he got a bite.

  He pulled back, gritting his teeth at the strain. The nose started to move but it was painfully slow. Carter reached down for the elevator trim wheel and turned it full. That helped, but even then, it took an age for them to level off.

  The Lancaster was wallowing and Carter found he had to make frequent control inputs to keep them going. He was sweating. He had no idea what altitude they were at as the gauge had gone. There were holes in the instrument panel and there were holes in the canopy. The front windscreen panel was cracked and wind howled by his ear. Something banged behind him, he could feel it flapping around, the vibration coming up through his seat.

  The tang of burnt wiring and cordite stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. He tried the R/T but heard nothing, not even a hiss in his earphones. He looked over at the Engineers station and saw Byron was pale, his face clammy, his eyes wide. Carter tapped the ear of his flying helmet and Byron understood. He came close and cupped his hands to shout in Carters ear.

  “Thank god you’re okay, skipper.”

  “Are you all right?” Byron nodded. “We took a big hit. Aft I think.”

  “There’s a hell of a draught,” Byron agreed.

  “Get Vos to have a look. See if you can sort out the R/T.”

  Byron disappeared leaving Carter to commune with the Lanc and keep her going. Something was obviously wrong back there because he had a devil of a job keeping the wings level. Normally, he could fly almost hands off. With one engine out it needed a bit more work, but now, she was all over the shop. He had to constantly move the yoke and due to the slack, he had to anticipate things to a large degree. He would put a correction in but it would take a few seconds before anything seemed to happen in response.

  He glanced down at the instruments. The panel was a mess but at least he had his artificial horizon and airspeed indicator. Some of the engine instruments were smashed but the engines themselves seemed to be okay.

  Vos had been listening on his radio set when the flak caught them. One minute he was sat at his operators desk, the next, he was flung forward and plunged into darkness as the small light by his panel went out. There was a massive rush of air behind him as he fumbled around in the dark. He tried the switch but it didn’t come back on. Either the bulb had gone or the circuit had blown.

  They were diving and he froze at his desk. This was it, they were going down for the final time. Fear gripped him and he glanced up at the escape hatch. He thought about the time they had ditched in the lake, the struggle it had been to get out. He reached for his parachute pack and blanched when his hand was met with empty air. He scrabbled around on his hands and knees but couldn’t locate it.

  When they levelled off, he sat back down, his heart thumping in his chest and it took him some time to gather himself together. Byron appeared out of the dark and shouted in his ear. Vos cast an anxious glance down the dark pit of fuselage. Light flickered in a weird kaleidoscope back there. Byron gave him a little shove and Vos swallowed hard as he squirmed over the main spar.

  A huge gale tugged at him. It looked like the left side of the fuselage was gone. There was a huge gash in the skin and he could see the stars outside. The flickers of light were flashes of flak and glimmers of searchlight shining through the gaping hole in the thin skin. The slipstream tore at the gap, scrabbling for a purchase. Bits of torn metal flapped and banged against each other.

  Clinging to the right side, he fumbled his way along. He tripped over something on the floor and screamed as he fell, thinking he was going out the hole. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, his hands slick from some viscous liquid on the floor. He came to the mid upper turret and looked up. Murphy was slumped in the sling seat, his arms dangling down by his side. Vos stood up, using Murphy’s legs to get his balance.

  He tugged on the gunners clothing but he didn’t stir at all. Turbulent air battered at Vos’s face. He unhooked the safety belt and Murphy flopped into his arms. They crashed to the fuselage floor, Murphy on top of Vos, a dead weight. Vos rolled him off him to the side and kept a firm grip of his jacket, to stop him falling out. It would be along way down without a parachute.

  Gingerly getting to his feet, he dragged Murphy back to the rear of the main spar and propped him up against it. He felt around his clothing but there were no obvious tears or gashes. Vos shook him by the shoulders but Murphy remained stubbornly unconscious. Cursing, Vos fumbled around for a first aid kit. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and he was feeling around on the floor of the fuselage for it when he was kicked hard in the back.

  Oberleutnant Fischer was amazed. The numbers were simply incredible. When the first reports were coming in, it had seemed like a fantasy. Ground control had reported an enormous armada that just kept on coming. Bomber after bomber had flown over Cologne and put the city to the torch.

  Like many other nightfighters, he had been sat on the ground, engines running, waiting to be given the order to take off. The raid had been going on for over an hour before he was finally given permission to intercept them.

  Engines screaming, he had climbed hard, desperate to gain height and infiltrate the enemy route home before they got away. Ground control had alerted him to the bombers going south of the city before turning northwest, back the way they had come. Circling to the south, he used the glow from the fires to silhouette the bombers below him and his radar operator directed him in.

  He had already killed tonight. He had swooped on a Wellington as it turned away from the city and turned it into a funeral pyre for its crew. The wing tanks ignited and it blew up, scattering bits of itself all over Germany.

  Seated behind him, his operator fiddled with his radar set. The Lichtenstein radar had a range of no more than three kilometers but tonight, there were so many aircraft in the air it was picking up targets all over the place. Three small screens glowed in the dark. One gave range, the other azimuth, the other elevation. He picked up a target a short distance away below them to port. He communed with the screens and called out directions until his pilot could visually acquire the target.

  Fischer saw it. The big bomber was weaving gently left and right as it went along. He stalked them, gaining some height as he drew closer on their starboard side. He grew more confident when he saw the
mid upper turret wasn’t moving at all. Either their hydraulics were out or something was wrong with the gunner. Settling himself in his seat, the pilot pressed the oxygen mask to his face and flicked the safety off.

  He dived towards the Lancaster, putting the reticle of his gunsight on the fat fuselage, right behind the wing. Underneath the middle turret he could see the roundel; the big circle of red, blue and white ringed in yellow. He bore in, hunched forwards, both hands gripping the stick.

  The tail turret opened fire and four lines of tracer headed his way. Glowing balls whipped past his cockpit and he felt the thud as some hit the port wing. He squeezed the triggers and the nose flashed as the 20mm shells reached out. He exulted as he saw the rounds go in. The hits flashed sparks on the fuselage.

  There was another jolt as the bomber scored on him again. He tightened his turn and carried on firing, raking the tail of the bomber as he broke off the attack. He climbed away, translating the speed from the dive to gain some altitude. He came around in a lazy circle and blinked, rubbing his eyes. The flashes from the guns in the nose had messed with his night vision and it would take a minute or two to get it back.

  “Where is he, Becker?” he asked his operator.

  Becker sat in silence looking at his non functioning set. Two of his screens were dead. He told his pilot they were blind. Fischer was not happy. With no radar set, he would have to do this the old fashioned way.

  He advanced the throttles and dived. He would go lower, letting the bright moonlight silhouette the bombers against the sky. Their black painted undersides would stand out perfectly. He turned right to insert himself into the bomber stream heading for home.

  In the tail, with the R/T out, there was little warning Todd could give. The only thing he could do was to open fire early to prompt the boss into taking evasive action. As it was, nothing much happened. They must have been asleep up front because they just plodded along straight and level while the 110 raked the fuselage.